


The Point Just Passed

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (2011), Fantastic Four, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universes, Angst, Breakup, Determinator Phil, Hurt/Comfort, Loki Is A Jerk, M/M, Rescue Fic, Time Travel, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:03:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s not having time that matters. It’s knowing what to do with it.” That's what Phil Coulson's father told him on his thirteenth birthday. It took him thirty-four years to understand what he meant.</p><p>ON HAITUS</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a sucker for epic quests undertaken in the name of true love. I'm also a sucker for time travel. Turns out it's a deadly combination.
> 
> Title from a David Russell quote: "The present is a point just passed."

_I want to go ahead of Father Time with a scythe of my own._

_-HG Wells_

 

On Phil Coulson’s thirteenth birthday, his father gave him a watch. It was simple- a white face framed in a circle of gold, with neat black numbers and three straight hands ticking ‘round in an endless loop. It was just this side of too big for Phil’s skinny wrist, and his father laughed as he cut a careful extra hole in the black leather band with his pocketknife.

 

“There’s never been a man or woman in this family who could stand to be late.” Robert Coulson had grinned at his eldest son and strapped the watch snug against his wrist, cool calloused fingers buckling the golden clasp. “Your grandfather never missed a second, rest ‘im, and your great-grandpa was the same way. We Coulson’s, we’ve got a way with keeping time.”

 

Phil had agreed. At thirteen, Phil would have agreed with his father if he had said the sky was purple. The wristwatch rubbed his skin and smelled warm and rough.

 

“It’s not having time that matters.” Robert had said, and Phil listened like it was the gospel. “It’s knowing what to do with it.”

 

The radio burst with static, filling the insides of Robert’s Buick. Phil had looked up from his father’s gift and watched as he tuned the dial to catch what was being said.

 

“-In progress on Forester Ave.” The voice on the radio crackled. “All units advised, suspects are armed and dangerous-“

 

Robert had scratched his moustache, which he’s grown in the three years since he’d come back from Vietnam. Phil had mixed feelings about the moustache- on the one hand his mother rolled her eyes and said it tickled, but on the other Robert had chosen to grow it, so to an extent it was perfect.

 

He had put on his policeman’s hat over his thinning hair and smiled down at Phil, who was in the passenger seat. “No rest for the wicked, huh?” His eyes had twinkled. “I’ve gotta get back to work, kid.”

 

Phil let himself out of the car. His father honked the horn and he did a 180 in the driveway to see where the noise was coming from.

 

Robert stuck his head out the window of the patrol car. “Happy birthday, Phil.”

 

It was April 4th, 1978. Two months later, Robert Coulson took a Saturday night special to the back of the head, courtesy of a drunken twenty-three year old trying to hold up a liquor store. He lingered in the hospital, three quarters of his face blown off and drooling from an unanchored tongue, for a week and a half. He died at 1 PM exactly.

 

Phil took the watch off for showers and when he slept, but aside from that it barely left his wrist.

 

-

 

The day that Phil Coulson moved the last box of his things out of the Avenger’s Mansion also happened to be the end of the world.

 

It was sort of appropriate, he thought to himself as he blasted off a round from his Sig Sauer, shattering the giant crystalline figure that had been advancing on him. Earlier that day he’d stood in the room hat he used to share, gathering the few of his things that hadn’t made it into cardboard containers as Clint stood in the doorway, watching silently. The archer had ducked his head and retreated to the kitchen when Phil turned around to leave.

 

Now he was crouched on the rooftop of a brownstone, firing arrows that exploded into flames at the dwindling army of golems. On the ground level, Captain America and Black Widow were backing up Thor as he squared off with his brother. Loki grew more and more vicious as Iron Man and the Hulk destroyed his magic-crafted attackers and Hawkeye studded them with arrows.

 

The camera crews were loving it. A news helicopter was buzzing around in the air above the battle, swerving to avoid the dark vortexes that Loki kept summoning in random places. They gaped like swirling purple rips in the sky, their edges jagged like the mouth of a Venus flytrap.

 

God damn magic. Phil resolved to stay away from the black holes, whatever the Hell they were. He didn’t need to find out. He wasn’t even supposed to be here.

 

It was just the end of the world again. It happened every few months.

 

The Avengers fought like a well-oiled machine, all the parts moving together in synch. The golems dropped like flies, smashed or shot or repulsor-blasted until only one remained. Coulson emptied his gun at the thing’s head, hoping for it to shatter, but it only let out a tinny roar as the bullets pinged off its shiny skin. Phil swore.

 

“We’ve got this one, Agent.” Stark’s voice came over the comm. Over the sound of the monster’s raging and Thor and Loki screaming at each other, Phil could ear, “Hulk smash!” from somewhere at the golem’s feet. The creature loomed tall over the building where Clint was perched, and the archer let fly an arrow straight into its eye.

 

“Hawkeye! Get down from there!” Phil looked up at the brownstone, squinting in the golem’s shadow.

 

“Iron Man, tell Agent Coulson that I’m not retreating from my position.” Clint spat down the comm.

 

“For God’s sake, Clint, this isn’t the time!” Phil started to make his way through the rubble of the street, heading towards the brownstone. “This is a direct order, get off that roof!”

 

A lot of things happened at once, then.

 

Thor and Steve tackled Loki, knocking him off his stupid horned helmet. Natasha had her gun cocked and pressed against the half-god’s high forehead. The Hulk barreled into the giant crystal monster’s legs at the same time that Tony let rip with his repulsor blasts, and Clint let another arrow pierce the thing’s remaining glassy eye.

 

It shattered from the waist down, chucks of mineral flying in all directions. One imbedded itself in the pavement behind Phil. He barely noticed.

 

The golem was falling. It crashed down into the building, sending bricks and plaster sailing down like rain. Phil watched with mounting horror as it crumbled in a cloud dust.

 

He lost sight of Clint.

 

There was someone yelling in his ear as he clambered up the twisted metal of the fire escape, dodging out of the way of falling chunks of rock and steel. There was a hole where the roof used to be, and as he stumbled blindly along what was left of the hallways his heart pounded louder than any of the voices clamoring for attention on the radio.

 

There was a hand sticking up from the hole, grasping fast to the remains of a railing from one of the demolished staircases. Phil ran over and grabbed it blindly. When he looked over the lip of the hole, he saw Clint staring back.

 

“Phil.” He gulped in a breath of air, eyes wide. There was deep cut bleeding on his cheek. His hair and face were shimmering with strands of broken crystal. “Oh fuck, Phil, I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t say that.” Phil held tight to his hand “Can you move your other arm?”

 

Clint shook his head. "Snapped like a twig. Phil, I don’t know if I can hold on here-"

 

“Stop it. Tony or Steve’s gonna be here in a minute, okay? We’re going to get you out of here.”

 

“Why’d you come in for me?”

 

“That’s a stupid question, Clint.” Phil let out a shaky laugh. His knuckles were starting to turn white.

 

There was a dull roar, and suddenly the ground beneath where Clint was dangling turned a deep, swirling, purple. Phil sucked in a breath.

 

“This sort of thing is why you’re leaving, right?” Clint forced a laugh. It came out sounding hysterical. “It’s the whole problem in a nutshell.”

 

“Clint, I’m not going to let go. I’m not going to let go of you.”

 

“Phil. I can’t hold on.”

 

"Don’t say that!” Phil’s arm was trembling from the strain of supporting another person. “You’re going to be fine-“

 

“I can’t do it, Phil, I’m gonna fall!” Clint choked on the dusty air, coughing violently.

 

“I’m not going to leave, I’m not going to let you go!”

 

Clint’s eyes squeezed shut, then opened with a look of abject horror. “Oh God,” he muttered, “I can’t-“

 

There was a whisper of Clint’s calloused fingers against Phil’s palm. It wasn’t even enough time to draw breath, a fraction of a second slip.

 

And then he was gone and the dark vortex of black and purple that swallowed him closed up and spun into nothingness.

 

-

 

Reed Richards was taller in person than he looked in press photograph. He also resembled a diplodocus, with his neck stretched out across the room to check his notes. He glanced up from the tattered notebook, glasses slipping down his nose, and Phil wondered (mind wandering) if his bones stretched to support everything. “There’s something I’ve been working on that’s sort of like what you’re looking for.”

 

Phil’s hands lay flat on his knees under the table conference, knuckles taut and fingers digging into the fabric of his slacks. “Define ‘sort-of’.”

 

Richard cleared his throat, extending an arm four or five feet to the white board and grabbing an erasable marker. “It’s like this. Most people think of time as a line.” He drew a straight, flat plane. “But it’s not really like that. You’ve heard of chaos theory?”

 

The R&D techs scattered around the table nodded, murmuring quietly. In his chair at the head, Fury frowned. “That’s the butterfly effect thing, right?”

 

“That’s right, sir.”

 

“I hate Ashton Kutcher.”

 

“Don’t we all.” Richards smiled wryly. “Anyway, if you factor chaos theory into your perception of time, you end up with something like this.” The pen scraped smoothly over the board, more lines branching out from the main one. “Each new direction that the line goes in after this point,” he labeled the spot where the arrows deviated with an ‘x’, “Is what we call a divergent timeline.”

 

Phil felt his heart sink. “You’re talking about alternate universes.”

 

“Exactly.” Richards capped his marker. “Loki said that the portals were doors in time. But as far as we know, they could have destination points in any of a billion timelines.” He shot Phil a sympathetic glance. “Your agent could be virtually anywhere.”

 

“But he is there somewhere.” Phil said firmly, carefully blank expression strained. Richards opened his mouth and then closed it again, scratching his graying temple.

 

“Well, yes. But it’d take years- I mean decades, maybe centuries-“

 

Phil interrupted. “What about your machine? The one that ‘sort-of’ works?”

 

Richards bristled, a ripple running down his long spine as he stretched across the table. “It doesn’t ‘sort-of’ work.” He glared. “It works. It’s just… a little different from what you’re proposing.”

 

“Details, Richards. Use small words.” Fury said coolly.

 

“Remember last year when Johnny Storm got stuck in the Phantom Zone?” Richards shuddered. It obviously wasn’t a pleasant memory. “I made the machine so that Ben and Sue and I could go in and get him back safely. It can travel through time, space, dimensions- it can go pretty much anywhere.”

 

“But.” Fury prompted.

 

“But…” Richards dragged the word out sheepishly. “The… steering if you will… leaves a lot to be desired.” He met the blank stares around the table and rolled his eyes. “You can’t really direct it to an exact time or place. When we were getting Johnny our objective was just in, out, home again. We didn’t need to know specifics. But otherwise it just sort of jumps around in the time stream.” He shrugged. “You’re flying blind.”

 

Phil narrowed his eyes. “How did you get back if it’s so hard to navigate?”

 

“There’s a panic button that returns you to your point of origin.” The scientist sniffed. “I’m not an amateur.”

 

When the conference ended Phil trailed after Fury like a hovering ghost as the director shook hands and shared muted words with Richards. When it was time Phil politely took the hand he was offered, slightly too-long rubbery fingers feeling odd in his grasp.

 

“I’m sorry I can’t do more to help.” Richards said, all his limbs just a touch too long. “I’m sure Agent Barton was a good man.”

 

“He still is.” Phil shifted his calm face to something just a shade more threatening. It was barely perceptible to a normal person. Reed Richards coughed nervously.

 

“Of course. Uh…” He motioned to a cluster of agents from R&D. “I need to go discuss… science.”

 

He excused himself, body moving like a snake’s as he walked away. Phil looked up as he heard a throat being cleared. Fury stood by the doorway, one eyebrow raised expectantly. He jerked his head towards the hall and Phil followed silently.

 

“Reed Richards is a genius, but he’s useless to us if he can’t make his machine work the way we need.” Fury walked down the hallway as Phil tagged on behind. “We can’t know how long that’s going to take.”

 

“Can we really trust him?”

 

Fury watched Phil with his one eye. “He’s solid. Clean. Good record. And you know he’s done work with us in the past, during the Latveria deal last year.”

 

“Of course.” Phil ducked his head.

 

“He’s an arrogant little bastard, though.” Fury continued. “Thinks he knows everything. Granted, he knows about 95% of everything, but that still leaves 5% unaccounted for and we can’t afford that right now.”

 

“Sir?” Phil asked. Fury didn’t meet his eyes.

 

“We have ways of getting people to do things.” He said. “Don’t want to admit it, of course, it’s not exactly Geneva convention approved behavior. And we can try to talk him into it. But if he holds out on us, for whatever reason he’s got in that big head of his…” Fury shrugged. “He’s one of the smartest men in the country. Probably the world. We’ll get something out of him eventually.”

 

Phil nodded. “Eventually.” He raised his head to boldly look Fury straight in the eye. “With all due respect, sir, why don’t we just commandeer the machine now?”

 

“You heard what he said, Coulson. It’s flying blind. We’d be putting anyone we chose to ride the damn thing in serious danger, and no one wants to deal with that kind of paperwork.” He narrowed his eye. “I know what you’re thinking.  Stop thinking it.”

 

“It could be years before Richards fixes whatever problems the thing has.” A muscle ticced in Phil’s jaw. “What happened to ‘No man left behind’?”

 

Fury stopped abruptly outside the door of his office to glare at Coulson. “We’re not leaving anyone behind, Agent. But there are _rules_.” He shook his head. “I know what was going on between you and Barton. I understand what you’re feeling right now, but _you cannot act on it._ We’ve gotta handle this carefully. Loki’s barely talking. It took a whole lotta pain to even get out of him what those damn portal things _were_. Our first priority is getting Hawkeye back, but we’re walking on eggshells here.” He opened his door. “We need to tread carefully.”

 

Phil spread his hands. “What do you want me to do, sir?”

 

Fury eyed his number one agent up and down before fixing him with a cyclops stare. “I need you to keep a cool head. I need you to stay the way you’ve always been, Coulson.”

 

-

 

Phil awoke to the touch of a hand on his face, calloused fingers gentle against his cheek. He smiled into the curve of the palm, opening his eyes. “Hey.”

 

“Hey yourself.” Clint pressed a chaste kiss to Phil’s lips. The sheets of their shared bed were pulled over their heads, but even in the warm dark Phil could make out his square features, soft in the glow of early morning. He rubbed a foot along Clint’s muscled calf where their legs tangled together.

 

“Did you already brush your teeth?” he murmured, tasting Clint’s breath, sweet with mint.

 

“Something like that.” He gazed at Phil tenderly, trailing his hand down the front of the faded NYU t-shirt Phil slept in.

 

Phil smiled. “You know I love you, right?”

 

“Always.” Clint clasped his hand, tangling their fingers together. “Don’t let me go, Phil.”

 

“What?” Phil blinked, and Clint’s face was scratched and shimmering with blood and crystal. His nails dug into the soft flesh of Phil’s hand. “No.” He breathed.

 

“Don’t leave me, please.”

 

“No! NO!” Phil grabbed for Clint, but as hard as he tried he couldn’t get hold. “Not again, no!”

 

“Phil-“ Clint gasped, his fingers slipping.

 

Phil woke, gulping for breath like a landed fish. His shirt stuck to his chest, drenched with sweat, and his legs were twisted up in rough, unfamiliar sheets. It took him a long moment to remember where he was, face pressed against the pillow.

 

The hotel’s clock read three thirty-five in red digital numbers. Phil sat up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and letting his bare feet thump against the carpeted floor. He buried is face in his hands, air rasping harshly down his raw throat.

 

He dressed as if still half-asleep, pulling on the rumpled suit he’d thrown over a chair the night before. It took him three tries to knot his tie correctly. He shaved, washed his face, combed his hair.

 

SHIELD headquarters was unsurprisingly active for three in the morning, agents swarming around the sterile white hallways like ants in a hill. There were constant crises that needed to be dealt with, always a new fiasco or masked idiot who wanted to rule the world. Phil strode through the building wearing his blank mask of professionalism, pretending not to notice the stares directed at his back as he passed by. The click of his office door when he closed it behind him was a welcome sound.

 

Phil pressed his forehead against the cold metal of the door; trying to focus on the cool, smooth pressure instead of the thoughts crawling angrily in his brain. With very close of his eyes his mind regurgitated images of Clint’s face, desperate and pained as he fell.

 

“Phil.”

 

He started, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. “Jesus, Natasha, don’t do that.”

 

The redhead sitting on his couch frowned. “Sorry.” Her eyes followed him as he sat down behind his desk. She was dressed in a sweater and jeans, uncharacteristically casual. “You should be asleep.”

 

“Pot. Kettle.” Phil pointed between them with a ballpoint pen. “What are you doing in my office?”

 

“Waiting for you.”

 

He raised an eyebrow. “How long have you been here?”

 

“A few hours. It doesn’t matter.” Natasha waved her hand dismissively. “We need to talk.”

 

“So talk.”

 

Phil buried his head in paperwork. Reaching out across the desk, Natasha snapped the open file shut. Phil fixed her with a blank look. “You should be back at the mansion,” she said.

 

“We both know I’m not wanted there.” He lowered his gaze back to his papers. A loud crack rang out through the room and he winced, rubbing his cheek. “That was unnecessary.”

 

Natasha wrung out the hand she had slapped him with. “You should be back at the mansion.” She repeated. “It was hard enough when we all thought you were leaving on your own, but with Clint gone too it’s unbearable.” She shook her head “Tony hasn’t stopped drinking.”

 

“I’m not Tony Stark’s babysitter anymore.”

 

“No, you’re not.” She glared. “You’re his teammate. You can deny it all you want, but I think at this point we’ve moved past the, ‘He’s not my friend’ stage.”

 

“Fine. What do you want me to say?” Phil slammed a hand down on the desk, rattling the jar of pens. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Natasha. I think that much is obvious now.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I left him so that I wouldn’t have to lose him, but I lost him anyway.”

 

Natasha watched him silently. Finally, she sighed and sat down again. “I can get you into the Baxter Building.”

 

“Excuse me?” Phil looked up incredulously.

 

“The Baxter Building. It’s the Fantastic Four’s HQ.” She met his gaze evenly. “I can get you in. To the machine.”

 

Phil nodded slowly. “How did you hear about it?”

 

She frowned, offended. “Please.”

 

“Alright, that was a pointless thing to ask.” He conceded. “Why?”

 

She rapped a knuckle on the stack of files piled high on his desk. “Because I looked through this while I was waiting for you to get here and they’re all Clint’s mission reports. Because I knew that you would be awake and in the office at three in the morning. Because I’ve known you for seven years and you’ve never once left a man behind. And because I know you, and I know Clint, and I know that you’re not going to rest until you find him.”

 

“That sounds about accurate.” Phil stood up, straightening his coat. “Alright. Let’s go break into the Baxter Building.”


	2. Chapter 2

 

Phil was in the armed forces. Phil was a ranger, and he had a tattoo on his left arm to prove it. Phil spent the better part of the last twenty years in service to a shady government agency, and the last five tagging after a bunch of costumed lunatics in a fight to defend the Earth. He was a Man In Black, one of the guys UFO nuts have nightmares about. He was a good soldier and a good man in a good suit that believed in truth, justice, and the American way.

 

He was also crouched over a circuit box, disabling the security system of one of the best-guarded buildings in New York.

 

He stood up from where he was crouched on the concrete, wiping his palms on his dark trousers. Beside him, Natasha raised an eyebrow.

 

He nodded. “We’re go in five.” His watch ticked past, the second hand moving once, twice, three times, four times, five times. With the last twitch of gold, the alarms went off inside the Baxter Building.

 

“Now.”

 

They strode in the glass double doors, pulling their IDs from deep inside their jackets as the guards went for their tasers.

 

“Agents Coulson and Romanov, Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division!” Phil barked, brusque and well rehearsed. “You’ve got a security breach; we’re here to investigate.”

 

“O-of course, sir. Ma’am.” The guards had obviously encountered SHIELD before, and they bustled to get out of the way as Phil and Natasha pulled their side arms and darted into the elevator. The doors closed behind them with soft ping, and Natasha huffed out a laugh.

 

“Bavarian Fire Drill.” She shook her head. “Works every time. Flash a badge and they’re putty in your hands.”

 

Phil stared balefully at the mirrored walls of the elevator. “That was a serious abuse of power.”

 

“Yes. Yes, it was.” Natasha punched a number on the control panel. “Were going to the fourteenth floor.”

 

“So no jumping out windows if we get caught, then.” Phil said dryly.

 

“We’re not going to get caught.”

 

The doors opened onto a long dark hallway and Phil and Natasha started down, sticking close to the wall. The alarm had gone silent and the only sounds were the clatter of their footsteps on tile and the traffic outside. One side of the corridor was a giant pane of glass, stretching out across the building. Even with the lights of New York City leeching up into the sky the moon was still visible, round and full and glowing white.

 

Natasha reached the large, foreboding door at the end of the hall and smacked the blinking panel beside it with her palm. “Right.” She pulled a set of screwdrivers, a small pair of pliers, and what looked suspiciously like a crowbar from her Louis Vuitton shoulder bag, digging the edge of the Phillip’s head into one of the key pad’s corner screws. “This shouldn’t take too long. Keep watch.”

 

Phil holstered his gun and replaced it with his trusty taser, flicking it to a low setting. The long hallway was pitch-black, the only light coming off the streets outside and Natasha’s flashlight. Phil swept his gaze up and down the corridor before turning back to his partner in crime. She had half of the panel pried up and was twisting a bit of wire carefully, swearing under her breath in guttural Russian.

 

As he turned back, he caught something shimmering in the corner of his eye. Without thinking he lunged at it, taser outstretched, reflexively attacking what looked like empty air.

 

The empty air shrieked, flickered with white-blue electricity, and dropped to a heap on the floor. Phil did a double take at the young blonde woman twitching on the ground in her pajamas.

 

Natasha glanced over her shoulder. “Did you just tase the Invisible Woman?”

 

“It would seem so.” Phil kicked away the baseball bat she’d been carrying, which rolled down the hall. He crouched beside her. “I am sorry about this, ma’am.”

 

She groaned. Natasha bent down by Phil, flashing a smile. “Hi, Susan. Remember me?”

 

Sue Storm, the no-longer Invisible Woman, eyed them blearily. “What’s going on?” She slurred. “Are the rest of the Avengers here?”

 

Natasha shook her head. “No, it’s just us. Phil, give me a hand.”

 

They hoisted Sue up and half-dragged, half-carried her over to the keypad, supporting her lolling head on Phil’s shoulder. “If it means anything, I didn’t actually tase you on purpose.” He apologized. “It’s nothing personal. You might want to tell your boyfriend to be a little more generous with his toys, though.”

 

“And while we’re very sorry about this, you’re actually saving us a lot of time and trouble. This is much better than us just ripping up your security system with some pliers.” Natasha grabbed her hand, pressing it against the scanner.

 

The pad beeped and turned green, and as the door opened they let Sue slide gently to the ground. Phil rolled her over onto her side and darted after Natasha.

 

“We just left one of the founding members of the Fantastic Four drooling into the carpet.” He panted. “Fury’s gonna kill me.”

 

“Do you honestly care at this point?”

 

“Not really, no. But I thought I should say it anyway.” He slowed down, looking around the room they were in. “Huh.”

 

It was vast. The ceiling reached up high, silent, dark fluorescent lights lining the tiles. Machines were scattered all around the floor, on pedestals and on linoleum, some half-built and others finished and shiny-new. The walls and floor were all a matching shade of unbroken eggshell white, and as Natasha swept the beam of her flashlight over everything they could see computer monitors and toolboxes covering every surface.

 

Phil tripped over a soldering iron and came face-to-face with his own warped reflection, staring back at him from a giant black screen. The place was nothing but futuristic tech and shiny white walls. It was like walking into the unholy offspring of an Apple Store and the set of MythBusters.

 

“Here.” Natasha pointed to a small white pod in one corner of the workshop. It was about the size of a Prius and shaped like an egg. “I saw photos of it in the Fantastic Four’s file last year when we were being debriefed after the Latveria deal. This is it.”

 

Phil ran his palm over the machine’s sides. It was smooth and cool to the touch. He glanced at Natasha. “That’s a hell of a thing.”

 

They both stared at the pod for a long time. Finally, Phil nodded.

 

“Okay.” He lifted a smooth handle and the door swung out with a pneumatic whoosh of air. He climbed into the machine, exhaling heavily. The pod was tiny, just a few curved seats and a control panel, and it suddenly made Phil terribly claustrophobic. His chest felt tight with anticipation as he slung his duffle bag into one of the free seats.

 

Natasha poked her head in the door. “You alright in here?”

 

“Seems so.” The corners of his lips drifted up in a smile. “Thanks, Natasha.”

 

“No problem, sir.” She grew serious. “Bring Clint back to us. Okay?”

 

Phil nodded. “I will.”

 

Natasha reached out suddenly and pulled him into a bone-crushing hug. She pulled away just as quickly, flashed him a salute, and shut the door, leaving him alone inside. He could see her dimly through the pod’s single tinted window, and he looked back down at the controls before he could think too much about it.

 

The controls seemed relatively simple, though the worry that he was completely misreading the way it worked ran through his mind. There was a green button, a button labeled with a picture of a house, and a small LED screen. It was obvious enough what the buttons meant- go, home. The current date flashed on the screen.

 

Phil closed his eyes for a second, trying to focus on what he was about to do. When he opened them, Natasha was knocking furiously on the window, staring in at him.

 

“They’re coming!” He heard her muffled shout through the glass. “You need to go now, they’re almost here!”

 

Phil checked his watch, took a deep breath, and pushed the green button.

 

-

 

_“So then the bearded lady says, ‘Are you kidding? I love pineapple!’”_

_Clint grinned broadly as the rest of the room burst from snickers into full-blown laughter. Tony wiped a tear from his eyes breathlessly. “Well, if I didn’t want to run away and join the circus before, that certainly would have convinced me.”_

_Steve smiled. “What little of that I understood seemed hilarious.” He said ruefully, shaking his head. Thor slapped him on the back, making the first avenger choke on one of the ice cubes in his Coke._

_“I also enjoyed your display of humor, Hawk-eyed one!” He boomed from where he was lounging on the sofa, long limbs sprawling over the cushions. “What is your opinion, Son of Coul?”_

_Phil smiled quietly from where he sat in the blue armchair; eyes fixed to whatever reality show they had muted in the background. That night it was Top Chef. “It loses something once you’ve heard it seven times.”_

_“Oh, come on. You laughed.” Clint goaded him. “Don’t try to hide it, Phil. We all know that under that cool, badass façade is a warm, fuzzy teddy bear just wanting to be cuddled.”_

_Phil raised an eyebrow. “How do you know it’s not a grizzly?”_

_“Because I’m the one who gets to see you with your shirt off.” He grinned lasciviously. Phil rolled his eyes._

_Bruce coughed. “Do you guys mind? I want to see who gets eliminated this week. Your banter is getting in the way of Padma.”_

_“Heaven forbid.”_

_Phil glanced back to where Clint was sitting cross-legged on the floor and felt the breath stick in his throat. The carpet was covered in plaster and rubble in a circle around the archer, and dust and glass twinkled darkly on his hair, his shoulders. He met Phil’s gaze and waved with his twisted arm, cracked bone poking grotesquely from underneath his skin._

_“Hey, babe.”_

 

-

 

The universe swirled outside the pod, purple and black like spilled oil. Phil struggled for breath, head spinning and neck thrown back against the chair. The pod’s lights thrummed rhythmically.

 

“ETA ten minutes.” A soft female voice crooned. The sound reverberated off the curved walls of the small space.

  
Phil rubbed his neck with a grimace. “Does that happen every time?” He wondered out loud.

 

“Common side effects of temporal displacement include nausea, headaches, heart palpitations, and flashbacks.” The voice purred.

 

“Fantastic.” He muttered, eyeing the control panel. The numbers and letters on the screen flashed by at an unreadable rate. _I stole this_ , he thought to himself. A necessary evil.

 

“Unrecognized bio-signature detected.” The voice continued. “Please state your name.”

 

“Phillip Coulson.” He leaned over the dashboard. “So you’re what, Hal 9000?”

 

“I am VIDI. I was programmed by Reed Richards to provide information and direction to users. Do you wish for me to provide information?”

 

“Not now.” Leave it to Richards to give his time machine the voice of Sigourney Weaver. Phil dug around in his bag, grabbing a bottle of aspirin. He gulped down two of the red tablets, taking a swig of water to wash them down. The bag was filled with survival supplied- bottled water, protein bars, clean clothes, a first aid kit. Phil had made up a panic bag when he first started working for SHIELD and it had lain in the back of his closet for years, waiting for an emergency. This was the first time he’d had to use it.

 

Always prepared. Phil smiled at the memory of Boy Scout meetings. Clint would have laughed at him for that- Boy Scouts, Army Rangers, Black ops, SHIELD- Phil had always been a man in uniform. Clint found the concept of Phil suit-less fascinating. He’s pluck at the bottoms of his jeans or curl his fingers in the holes of his ratty old t-shirts, the ones he used to paint in after an alien rocket launcher took out half the kitchen and the Avengers collectively decided that the new wall had to be blue.

 

Phil watched the dizzying movements outside the tinted window. The swirling maw was unmistakably the same that had filled the rips Loki opened in the sky, the familiar colors morphing and sliding through unending space.

 

If Phil had any doubts about what he was doing, he pushed them out of his mind.

 

“ETA: 2.5 minutes.” VIDI chimed. Phil glanced up at the ceiling as if the source of the robotic voice had adhered itself (herself?) to the roof.

 

A few seconds later there was a crunch, and the vortex outside the window was suddenly plunged o darkness. Phil grabbed the dashboard as the pod rocked back and forth, the contents of his bag spilling out across the seat. “What the Hell was that?”

 

“Re-calculating.” VIDI whirred for a moment as the pod slowly stabilized. “It appears my calculations were incorrect. ETA: negative twenty seven seconds.”

 

“So we’re already here.” Phil sighed, settling back. He looked over at the control panel. The screen blinked at him with blue letters. “Italy, February 20th, 1943.” He read out loud. “That’s-“

 

There was a loud, familiar whistle overhead, and then a deafening boom. The pod shuddered, and there was a sudden rapping on the roof. Phil glanced out the window, eyes growing wide.

 

“Oh Hell no.” He muttered.

 

“Sir or madam, I’m going to have to ask you to exit the vehicle.” Steve Rogers frowned under his red, white, and blue helmet. 


End file.
